


Softer than a Whisper

by aban_asaara



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mutual Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17386031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: His words are insufficient, but hers are unbearable.





	Softer than a Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> The way you said "I love you" prompt #22: muffled, from the other side of the door.

He still feels naked.

Even with his breastplate fastened over his heart, his greatsword at his hip, he feels exposed now, vulnerable, more chinks than armor. Two bells rang the hour shortly after their bodies parted, then three, then four. Hawke still sleeps, her hair a tangle on her pillow, her skin colorless in what little light filters through the thick drape of her curtains. The fifth hour is not far now.

Fenris adjusts the leather strap on his gauntlet— _again_ —but it will not sit comfortably around his wrist. He still feels naked; she has seen him now, trembling, fumbling, his hands unpracticed on her skin and his lips shy against hers, and he feels brittle and clear as glass under the memory of her touch. In the hearth, flames twist and curl, dancing themselves to exhaustion, and at last dim to embers while the night outside fades away, like ink stained with water.

He has shown her too much.

Five bells. Behind him, Hawke stirs awake. He owes her the truth, as a parting gift, if nothing else.

The few sentences he had memorized while he spent hours staring into the fire turn to smoke as he speaks. He hardly even knows what he is saying; he is stammering now, the words jostling each other in his mouth. They have a will of their own, clawing their way out of him before he can stop them, and Fenris hears himself talk about his memories without even meaning to, baring himself to her all over again. Faces, he remembers, blurs hovering at the edge of his sight like stars in the night sky, then dimming each time he turns his gaze in their direction. Words, scattering away at the sound of Hawke’s voice as she swings her legs off the bed, shrugs her robe on, then belts the waist. He remembered; a good thing, she believes. She does not understand.

The hope curling the corners of her mouth burns itself out, turns to ash like the flames in the hearth; he sees the moment it happens, commits it to memory before making his way to the door of her bedchamber. He cannot feel the warmth of her palms through the steel of his gauntlets as he pulls his hands free from hers, but he imagines it, imagines she can see through him, see his own name sticking under his breastbone like a knife when she says it, her words like so many blades asking him to stay, telling him they can work through this, telling him—

The door clicks shut behind him. “I love you,” she tells him, her voice softer than a whisper, so soft he thinks he imagined it too.

Fenris stays there for a long time, shoulder blades pressed to the door. Hawke must think he has already left; he pictures her with her forehead against the same door as she cries, her sobs coming through muffled. The only good thing to ever happen to him, and it broke like glass in his hands—but what else did he expect with hands like his, made to crush things?

He stays there until his own breathing becomes the only sound breaking the silence of the foyer. Then he adjusts his belt around his waist and his sword on his hip, and faces the nascent light of morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://aban-asaara.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
